


ash in your mouth

by flimsy



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Angst, M/M, tourfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:13:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsy/pseuds/flimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan just tilts his head, hands behind his back on the table, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, make-up runny and smudgy, eyes alive, little pearl teeth biting his lips as if he’s holding something back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ash in your mouth

That first time, it’s easy. 

It’s after the show and Brendon is high on Redbull and music, his head abuzz with song and sound, and god, he wants to scream and punch and _fuck_ , all at the same time, without interruption because the energy in his blood is making his veins throb and twist and he thinks he’s going to _explode_.

And Ryan’s there, available, yes, and Brendon leans against him, arm around his hip because he can, and breathes against his nape about how fucking _good_ the show was and inhales what’s left of Ryan’s perfume, all sweet and soft, a vague scent of wood and vanilla and something bittersweet. 

Maybe he’s not even surprised when Ryan doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even pull away when Brendon moves them into an empty dressing room, Spencer and Jon way ahead of them. Says “Ryan” with a ring to his voice that even he himself cannot define and pushes him against the dressing table opposite the door. 

And Ryan just tilts his head, hands behind his back on the table, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, make-up runny and smudgy, eyes alive, little pearl teeth biting his lips as if he’s holding something back. 

“Ryan,” Brendon says again and puts his hand on Ryan’s neck, fingers finding Ryan’s eye-shadow caked cheek, smearing dirty lines with his thumb across white skin. Ryan exhales audibly, eyes closed, lips red from the pressure of his teeth and Brendon wonders whether his mouth will taste like strawberries, because this is what it looks like.

But Ryan doesn’t taste of strawberries, or any fruit at all even, just tastes like boy and Redbull, sugar sweet, lips soft and yielding under Brendon’s force.

-

In the bunk beneath his own, Brendon can hear music and the sound of a pen sliding across paper, the sound of Ryan tapping along to a muted beat with his toes against the siding of the bunk. 

_tap tap scritch scritch_ with a hint of melody that Brendon can’t quite hear nor quite recognise. _tap scritch scritch tap tap_ and then Ryan humming along to some song. 

Brendon is still for a few moments, just listening, and then slides out of his bunk and down to the floor to peek through the curtains of Ryan’s bunk. 

“Hey,” Brendon says and tugs one of Ryan’s earphones out of his ear. “I’m bored. Entertain me. Watcha doing?” 

He crawls into the bunk before Ryan can protest, snatching his writing pad away, Ryan’s pen cluttering down into a crack between mattress and headboard.

“Shit,” Ryan curses and tries to reach for the writing pad and to find his pen again all at the same time. “That was my favourite. God, Brendon, give that _back_.” 

He sits up as much as possible in the tiny bunk and frowns at Brendon. He’s obviously given up his pen because he’s pushing at Brendon’s chest with both hands now. His fingers feel cold even through Brendon’s T-shirt and Brendon reaches up and puts his hands over Ryan’s, palms them to his chest, tells himself that Ryan’s hands are way too cold and something should be done about that. 

Ryan’s face becomes softer, tension melting from his shoulders, and Brendon pulls his hands up against his mouth to blow warm air against cold skin. 

“Jeez, you’re freezing,” he says before leaning in and pulling Ryan into a kiss. Ryan opens up for him, lips open and soft, and Brendon pushes his tongue in, scrapes his teeth over Ryan’s lower lip, bites, inhales Ryan’s low moan. 

“Mh,” he hums and pushes his thumb against Ryan’s lips after a moment, nuzzling his cheek. Ryan’s breath hitches and then he’s reaching down for Brendon’s belt, fumbling it open, fingers dipping inside to curl around Brendon’s half-hard cock. 

“God, yes, Ryan,” Brendon hisses, louder when Ryan starts stroking him. “God, can you− please, Ryan?” 

Ryan’s hand stops for a moment, pushes at Brendon’s jeans, and Brendon wants to see his face, see his eyes, see if this is really okay, but his hair is hiding him again. Then his mouth is on Brendon’s dick, tongue curling against the underside of it, lips wrapped tightly around it, cold fingers covering over what his mouth can’t quite take. 

And suddenly Brendon doesn’t think he’s required to think much about whether Ryan really wants this anyway, so he just pushes his fingers into Ryan’s hair, grasps, thrusts up, _up_ into Ryan’s mouth, the sounds he’s making as he’s sucking and licking ringing in Brendon’s ears. 

God, he thinks, as Ryan moans around his cock and just lets Brendon fuck his mouth, throat wet and hot and open for Brendon.  
God.

-

Brendon watches Ryan kohl his eyes, concentration fixed on a small, dusty mirror in the backroom of some scenester music store in New York. He’s biting his lip again, smoothing out the hard edges of black around his eyes, when he notices Brendon staring at him. 

There’s this look in his eyes, only for a moment, but Brendon isn’t sure if it isn’t just the crappy reflection, and then Ryan looks down, hair falling over his eyes as if he’s being coy, and puts on his newsboy cap. 

“You look silly,” Brendon says with a smirk and shuffles after Ryan out of the dressing room right into the arms of screaming fangirls. “I mean, seriously, are you trying to be more of a pussy than all of those chicks outside?” 

Ryan turns and opens his mouth to say something but suddenly Jon smacks the back of Brendon’s head and pulls him out into the store.

“Don’t tease the kitten,” he says.

-

“God, shit,” Brendon says and rolls onto his back. “You poked my eye. You stuck your fucking finger into my _eye_ , Jon Walker. I am wounded. This will have grave consequences on my performance tonight, I mean, like, _really_.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Jon says with a grin. “You asked for it.” He squats down next to Brendon in the morning-wet grass, barefoot with stupid cargo-pants and all. Brendon thinks he looks like a poster boy for _Nature_. He also looks like he has no problem beating up the lead singer of his band and then showing no remorse at all. 

“I think I want−chocolate ice-cream now. Do you think there’s still any left?” 

Jon shrugs. “Maybe. If Ryan didn’t eat it all.” A pause in which Jon gives him one of those I’m-two-years-older-so-listen-to-my-words looks. “So. Ryan.” 

“No,” Brendon says, rolls onto his stomach and sits up then. “None of your business, dude.” 

“Huh,” Jon answers. “I still think that whatever’s going on, it’s, like, maybe−” 

“Fuck you,” Brendon says, gets up and walks back to the tour bus because he really can’t talk about this now, or ever. 

Ryan is sitting in the lounge, eating ice-cream from the carton and doodling in his writing pad, long fingers drawing lazy lines with his favourite pen. He must have found it again, Brendon thinks. 

“I bought that ice cream,” Brendon says because he’s angry and it’s really _his_ and what is Ryan thinking eating it all by himself? 

“What?” Ryan asks around a spoonful of chocolate fudge ice-cream and it sounds more like ‘Mhwhuth’ which makes Brendon even angrier because can’t Ryan at least talk to him properly when he’s eating his food and fucking around with his mind already? 

“I said that’s my fucking ice-cream.” 

Ryan swallows and wipes a chocolate stain from the corner of his mouth. “There’s spoons in the drawer. Which you, like, should know. What rhymes with ‘devout’?” 

“Fuck you, I want my ice cream,” Brendon says. 

Ryan lowers his spoon, brows furrowed. “Have it all. It tastes like shit anyway.” He gets up, throws the spoon on the table and climbs out of the bus. And Brendon suddenly feels the need to both cry and trash something really badly. 

-

Brendon has fucked up Ryan’s mask again − there’s a crow with only one wing and another one that’s spreading black mist all over Ryan’s nose now. Brendon pushes his right thumb through the powdery red on the left half of Ryan’s face, colours his lips red and forgets to feels sorry for this mess when Ryan sucks his thumb inside his mouth, tongue curling around it, warm and soft before trying to pull back again. 

Brendon growls and rubs his finger over teeth, slick with spit, until Ryan grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away. The neon sign over their head flickers shortly, casting shadows over Ryan’s nose, lips. Orange, blue, red, there, there, like a fucking harlequin. 

“What,” Brendon asks, moving in close, mouthing against Ryan’s ear, hair against his nose, tickling, vanilla sweet. “What the fuck are you _doing_ , Ross? Why −” 

“Shut up,” Ryan hisses, jerks at Brendon’s collar and kisses him hard on the mouth, hands on his fly and inside, string-calloused fingers on his dick. Brendon bites Ryan’s lip and pushes his tongue inside his mouth because, really, how can he refuse to follow a simple command like that?

_Are you still mad at me because of the ice-cream_ , he doesn’t ask but threads his fingers through Ryan’s hair instead and sucks his tongue until Ryan clings to him like a drowning man. _Power_ , he doesn’t think, just _holy fuck god yes Ryan_ when Ryan strokes him harder, faster, rough, and Brendon closes his eyes and fucks into Ryan’s hand. He drags his hands down Ryan’s shirt, lower, pushes under the fabric of his pants, curling around Ryan’s cock. 

Ryan’s breath hitches, a sound of shudder, sweet like sugar against Brendon’s mouth on Ryan’s throat, and Brendon pushes him back against the brick wall behind them, dirt gnashing beneath his feet. 

“W-Wait,” Ryan says breathily, pulls back a little, lets go of Brendon’s cock and pushes Brendon’s hands off his own. His voice is rough, somehow raw and Brendon feels his hips jerk, feels his dick twitch. Ryan fumbles with Brendon’s pants for a moment and then he’s on his knees sucking the tip of Brendon’s cock between his lips, swallows him down his throat and pulls back again, tongue working along the underside, fast, even strokes. 

“Don’t stop,” Brendon breathes, brushing Ryan’s hair from his forehead, but Ryan climbs to his feet again, fingering his own belt open and prying his jeans from his hips. Even in the dim light of the alley Brendon can see Ryan’s fingers shaking and he nearly reaches out for him when he bites his lip. But he doesn’t because Ryan turns his back to him, hands braced on the brick wall before him, looks at Brendon over his shoulder and gives him that look again; the same look he gave Brendon before he jerked him off backstage, behind the amps where no one could see, where the air was hot and heavy around them and Ryan’s breath moist on his neck. Brendon shivers, resists to stroke his own cock, sucks his fingers inside his mouth instead because maybe, maybe he knows what Ryan wants. 

He feels his blood pounding in his veins, lava and fire, feels his head spin, and doesn’t ask for permission just hitches Ryan’s shirt up, splays his right hand out on the small of his back, the skin beneath his fingers hot and slick with sweat, and _pushes_ until he feels Ryan relax against him, until his shoulders sag a little. He moves his hand then, his left on Ryan’s hip, brushes over the soft curve of his ass, fingers the space between, rubs wet fingers over his opening and then pushes inside, slowly. 

Ryan tenses, and Brendon nearly stops but. But. He knows, just _knows_ Ryan wants this, too, because he turns his head again and looks at him, lower lip between his teeth, eyes urging him to go on. Brendon swallows dryly and pushes his finger deeper inside, twists, and out again, adds another one, fast, and feels Ryan convulse around him. He leans forward and bites the soft skin of his neck, rubs his dick against Ryan’s thigh. 

Ryan moans and pushes back against his fingers, reaches back and grabs Brendon’s ass. 

“Now,” he breathes and Brendon can only hear it because he’s mouthing Ryan’s cheek. He shivers, dick twitching, and pulls his fingers out. He spreads Ryan’s cheeks with both hands, shaking only a little, and directs the head of his cock inside. Ryan gasps and Brendon pushes in fast and rough, without stopping because this is Ryan and he cannot take this slow. There’s no way he can take this slow. 

A voice in the back of his head tells him that he just doesn’t have any self-control, and yes, _yes_ , it’s true, yes, but Ryan’s so unbelievably tight, hot, _god_ Brendon bites his lip and moans against Ryan’s neck, pushing into him in hard, short thrusts. 

Ryan makes a desperate sound, turns his face so his cheek is resting against the brick and moves back against Brendon. His eyes are closed and he’s biting his lip (again) and Brendon wishes he could take his face in his hands and kiss him. 

“Ngh,” Ryan says and then, “Harder, please.” 

And Brendon can’t, really, can’t help but snap his hips and shove his dick up Ryan’s ass, harder, _yes_ , faster, _yes_ , until the world is spinning from all the pressure and the friction and the tiny noises that Ryan makes, face unreadable, little pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. Brendon moans and covers Ryan’s hands with his own, jerking forward, and his movements are not really conscious at all anymore. 

Ryan whimpers then, and Brendon thinks he hears his name, maybe, he wants to hear it, yes, and he moans back _Ryan, yes, yes, god, fuck_ because maybe Ryan will say his name again. But Ryan keeps quiet, sweat on his nose, breath harsh and fast, left cheek against the red brick. For a moment, really only for a moment, Brendon is afraid Ryan’s make-up will leave traces, is afraid everyone will know, that the kids on the streets will be able to tell from the stains. But then Ryan wrenches his left hand from Brendon’s and reaches behind to tug him in harder, shoving himself back onto Brendon’s cock, mouth slack and open, eyes squeezed shut, and Brendon thrusts in harder, _harder_ , Ryan’s ass tight and perfect and _sogood_ when he comes, voice breaking, cracking like glass, body going taught and rigid against Brendon’s chest. 

Brendon says Ryan’s name, his own voice foreign to him, tongue heavy in his mouth, fingers clumsy and hot against Ryan’s skin; it nearly hurts, so good, when Ryan clamps down on him, and he can’t help it, it’s like falling only sweeter, better, as he comes inside him. 

His knees nearly give in, and he braces himself against the wall above Ryan’s head, and then pulls Ryan back against him, steadying him so he doesn’t fall. He might, Brendon tells himself, he might. 

“Take it out,” Ryan says, voice hoarse, and Brendon nearly blushes, nearly, and pulls back until his limp dick slips from Ryan’s ass. It’s obscene, really, this wet sound and Ryan’s gasp, and all Brendon wants to do is lay them down somewhere and sleep it all off. 

Ryan pushes him off, pulls his pants up again, zips up, belts up, straightens his shirt. Brendon tries to find something to say (‘Thank you’?) but there’s nothing, really, so he just closes his fly and waits until Ryan turns around. 

“Do I–“ Ryan starts and gestures at his face, rubs his neck where Brendon bit him. 

“Look as if your uber-hot bandmate just fucked in a back alley? Yes.” Brendon tries to grin, but Ryan flips him off and says: “You have rouge on your cheek.” 

Brendon makes a face and scrubs at his cheek with spit-wet fingers, and then follows Ryan back to their dressing room. He tries not to notice Spence raise a brow at them, fingers tapping an idle rhythm on the back of the sofa. 

“We’ve been waiting. Jon went to get some coffee. Where were you? And your make-up is a mess.” Spence doesn’t really sound as though these are the things he wants to say, long fingers curling over the cushions, legs crossed.

“Yeah, sorry,” Ryan says and gives himself a scrutinizing look in the mirror, eyes fixed on Brendon, though. A warning, maybe. “It’ll only take a minute.” 

Spence looks at Brendon, and maybe there’s accusation in that, something; Brendon isn’t sure whether this is ‘How could you mess up Ryan’s make-up this shortly before a show’ or ‘How could you fuck my best friend in a dirty alley?’ kind of indignation. He’s sure, though, Spence will tell him sooner or later. 

-

Brendon flops onto his back, facing the ceiling above his bunk. He can hear the engines hum, small vibrations running through wood and plastic and into Brendon’s fingers as he runs them over the ceiling above his head. It’s kind of weird because usually he can’t hear or feel these sounds, but now that there’s no TV running and no music, now that everything is quiet around him, it’s different. Weird.

He shifts, sighs and reaches for his sidekick; no new emails, no texts and no calls. But then, it’s 3 a.m. and who writes texts at this hour? He groans sleepily and turns onto his tummy, wiggles his toes and buries his face in his pillow when something in the bunk beneath is own bleeps and then vibrates. 

Okay, he thinks, so there are people writing texts at this time of the night, and a moment later, Why is Ryan not texting _him_? 

He sits up and slides down over the brink of the bunk until he can stick his face past the curtain of Ryan’s bunk, holding onto the mattress so he doesn’t fall. 

“Hey,” he says, blood rushing in his ears, head spinning. Oh my god, he thinks, I’m going to fall. 

Ryan jumps, back against the truck wall, cross-legged and hair askew, and Brendon has to laugh because it looks even funnier upside down. 

“Who’re you texting with?” he asks, pushing his hair from his face, skittering forward a little when he lets go of the mattress for a split second. 

Ryan gasps and it looks as if he’s about to reach out, but he just answers, “Watch out, you’ll fall and knock your head and end up like that pizza carton, five weeks in a corner until Spence can’t stand it anymore.” 

Brendon sniggers, heaves himself up and pulls back into his own bunk to turn around and let himself slide to the floor. 

“See, didn’t fall,” he says, pushing past the curtains to reach out for Ryan’s bare thigh. “Who’s that?” He clears his throat and points at Ryan’s phone. 

“Huh, no one.” Ryan shifts a little until Brendon’s hand slips from his leg, and Brendon feels his heart skip a beat, a sting maybe. “Go back to bed. It’s late.” 

Brendon grits his teeth and plucks the phone from Ryan’s hands, snaps it shut and climbs into the bunk. He drops the phone on the floor outside and pulls Ryan close. Ryan curses under his breath and strains against his hands, tries to reach over him outside the bunk. 

Brendon grins against his chest and wrestles him down into the pillows, wriggles until his pelvis fits neatly between Ryan’s knees, rocks a little, pins Ryan’s hands over his head. Ryan arches his back, tries to twist his hands from Brendon’s fingers. 

“Get off,” he hisses and kicks his legs. Brendon smirks and leans down to kiss him, but Ryan’s mouth stays closed and then his right hand somehow gets free and he rushes forward, punching the side of Brendon’s face. Brendon feels his lip split open, coppery blood against his tongue. 

“You asshole,” Ryan spits and Brendon rubs his cheek, speechless. 

“I–“ he says. “I. Just.” It’s there again, the stinging, and Brendon swallows heavily, sucks the wounded lip into his mouth.

Ryan just stares him down, arms crossed in front of his chest, and a moment later reaches outside the bunk to retrieve his phone. He settles down against the head of the bunk and flips his Sidekick open again. Brendon opens and closes his mouth, feeling numb and confused and just. He thought. He thought. 

“Okay,” he says after a moment and he nearly topples over as he climbs out of the bunk. His hands are shaking, kind of, only a bit, _really_ , and it doesn’t help when he sees Spencer standing in the small kitchenette, a glass of milk in his hand and another one on the counter. 

Brendon bites his lip, sits down on a bar stool and takes a sip of milk. 

“I. He,” he starts, not quite knowing what to say, but Spencer rolls his eyes at him and nods. 

Yes, Brendon thinks, he nearly forgot that there’s no secret you can keep from Spence. 

-

“This isn’t gonna work out, is it?” Brendon asks the next day when they’re walking from the bus to a small diner next to the gas station they stopped at. 

“What is?” Ryan retorts without turning, persistently keeping his pace in his stupid lipstick sneakers, and Brendon really feels too beat and frustrated to try and catch up. 

“This. Us. This thing.” 

“ _Right_ ,” Ryan says and even with the growing distance between them Brendon can hear the sarcasm in his voice. 

“Oh, _right_ ,” he responds loudly, “I fucked you backstage the day before yesterday and now it’s just a ‘ _right_ _’_?” 

That makes Ryan jump and turn and Brendon nearly bumps into him, still caught in his momentum. 

“Could you say that any louder−” Ryan starts but doesn’t finish because Jon interrupts him. “Uruguay hasn’t heard yet, Urie.” 

Jon grins and pulls Brendon into a headlock, drags him towards the diner, away from Ryan. Spencer’s already there, sipping coffee and eating a bagel, and Jon pushes Brendon into the booth and then slides in on the other side next to Spence. 

“There’s coffee,” Spence says as if he’s discovered the cure for cancer, swipes a crumb from the corner of his mouth, smiles at Brendon and props his chin on his hand and takes another sip of his coffee.

“There should be ham and eggs,” Jon says and jabs Spencer in the ribs. “Did you order ham and eggs?” 

“No,” Spencer answers, and Brendon watches him push a crumb off his plate, onto the crisp tablecloth, index finger rubbing circles over it until it’s gone. “That’s not healthy this early in the morning.” And he gives Jon this wicked little grin that tells them that everything he does is pretty much on purpose and very calculated, too. 

Just as the waitress approaches their table, Ryan slides into the booth next to Brendon and orders coffee and more bagels. Brendon notices, while asking for a cup himself, that the inky lines of eyeliner Ryan put on this morning, blocking the mirror again, yes, are gone, faded red under his eyes. 

Brendon bites his lip, feeling as if his insides are getting turned inside out because he feels so sorry all of a sudden. Ryan looks so tiny and small, and he keeps rubbing his nose and Brendon knows it’s because he just cried because Ryan always does that, the nose rubbing, when he’s just cried.

He waves the waitress over again and orders something sweet and extremely unhealthy hoping it’ll make him feel better. Later, when they’ve all eaten and had their two, three cups of strong coffee, later they walk back to the bus and Spencer and Jon speed up until Brendon falls back with Ryan. 

“Please,” Brendon says, throat tight, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Please don’t ever cry again.”

Ryan turns to look at him, his cap casting a dark shadow over his face because the sun is right over them. He shrugs, mouth tightening, gives Brendon this _look_ , as if he’s sure Brendon will hit him any second, and then runs on ahead, calling after Spencer, after Jon. 

-

Ryan’s new girlfriend is blonde. She’s kind of pretty, in this trailer-park-trashy-kind-of-pretty way. Brendon’s heard she did porn and wasn’t in the least surprised when he first found out. Also, he cannot (refuses to) remember her name. 

“Can’t we make it work?” Brendon had asked after Ryan brought her to the venue three days ago. He had sounded kind of desperate even to himself, and Jon and Spence were in the same room, probably pretending not to listen when in truth they were, but Brendon couldn’t be bothered with petty details like that anymore. 

And Ryan had shaken his head, hair flying a little, looking as if he might just cry again. “No,” he’d said and, “You know. Brendon. Us. The band.” And then nothing because the blonde had returned from her trip to the bathroom. 

But Brendon understands anyway. _Don’t let us fuck up the band_ , Ryan had said without words. And: _I’m sorry_. And: _I can’t_.

And Brendon had pressed their foreheads together during the show, sung with all his might, voice cracking like it hadn’t in _years_ , Ryan’s hair, skin soft under his fingers. 

-

Two days later Brendon wakes sometime during the night because Ryan is crawling into his bunk, iPod and writing pad and all, pulling at the sheets, pushing until Brendon makes room for him. 

“Nghuh?” Brendon says and that’s really understandable because it’s late and he was asleep, and there’s nothing wrong with being a little incoherent at this time of the night. 

“I’m cold,” Ryan answers, and yes, Brendon can feel goosebumps on his forearm, his thigh, where his tummy is exposed, touching Brendon’s skin. Ryan wriggles his toes and settles down on his stomach, flips open his writing pad and plugs his earphones in. 

“You know this is really, like, _awkward_ ,” Brendon says, but Ryan isn’t looking at him, just scribbling away word after word, black ink and tiny scrawl, so Brendon can’t read a single thing. But the little LC light on his iPod isn’t on, so Brendon continues. “This is so fucked up. So very fucked up.” 

Ryan just turns his head a little, hair in his face _again_ , and Brendon is starting to think this seriously is intentional. He contemplates shoving Ryan from his bunk, really, and tossing his stupid stuff right after him, but just sighs and turns, back against Ryan’s side, and it’s surprising how well they fit, even like this.

And maybe Brendon hears him say something, very quietly, something that sounds like “It’s okay like that. Like that it’s okay.” 

Brendon closes his eyes when soft sounds of music start seeping out from Ryan’s earphones. Maybe it’s really okay like that. Maybe he can, maybe this can work like this, too, maybe he can wait. Maybe, maybe, it’s okay like this, too.

***


End file.
